I am the girl that protested the world with art,it's too much pressure and I don't know if I can take it.As I draw I hear a man reciting a poem;I noticed that he talks with gloom coating his every word when most poets, gloomy or not, try to sound uplifting.He talks about depression and abuse and I feel like I am actually there;he swore that from that day forward he would never design an instrument meant to punish a child for as long as he lived.This place he talks about sounds familiar,I've heard both good and bad things about it but in the end I feel that it's important for me to go and see it myself but I never fly, I don't trust pilots... it's like handing your life over to a suit.He speaks with such passion and I hope that one day I can be as talented as that.His talent makes me want to punch someone in the face because I don't have it, I don't even feel bad about it.I hold up my drawing and inspect it,it looks as if the image was taken from the droplets around me and stretched onto a blank canvas.I close my notebook and shove it back into my satchel,hidden in darkness but holding treasures better than what we can create above ground, my art is sacred.

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